


When Pagliacci Wept

by cobblepologist



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Identity Porn, Kinda?, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 07:23:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblepologist/pseuds/cobblepologist
Summary: Black, arched eyebrows, hair slicked callously back. A Roman nose, a wide mouth. Bruce's only criticism is that he looks too boney, like his flesh has been stretched taut across his frame. More like the skin of a drum than the skin of a man. A tightly-wound little doll, keeping perfect time by thetap tap tapof his fingers against his side.Bruce meets Jack.





	When Pagliacci Wept

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghewls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghewls/gifts).



Another fundraiser. He hates doing this, hates the socializing, just wants to give the money to the right people and be done with it. But it's not so easy to convince the good people of Gotham City to do the same, so he hosts these, for himself, for his parents. The Thomas and Martha Wayne Foundation. He charms bills out of their pockets and back into the hands of the needy. Takes the stage like a magician and does the transmutation for everyone to see.

He'd give it all up if he could, redistribution and tipping the scales, (somewhere, Two-Face laughs,) but they need him as he is.

 _It's a party,_  Alfred reminds him, _try not to think about work._

He went to his last party when he was eight years old, but he doesn't tell Alfred that.

Instead, he surveys his own house, perched halfway up the stairs. An array of faceless, done-up socialites laughing with each other, huddled together in some dizzying spectrum of "yes, I remember you" and "we met at..." and "it's been so long!" Clark gives him a half-salute from the ground floor, busy talking to a group of men he recognizes as being involved with the Falcone family. He looks, and looks, but only one person really catches his eye. He's never seen this man around before, Bruce thinks idly, yet something about him is so familiar. And he even recognizes the representatives from overseas countries, the senators. But this man is a Gothamite, and he has no clue who he is.

He's sure it wouldn't even be a big deal if he wasn't so... striking. Black, arched eyebrows, hair slicked callously back. A Roman nose, a wide mouth. Bruce's only criticism is that he looks too boney, like his flesh has been stretched taut across his frame. More like the skin of a drum than the skin of a man. A tightly-wound little doll, keeping perfect time by the _tap tap tap_  of his fingers against his side. (The Hatter runs across his mind, the ticking of a clock and the banging of a spoon on a teacup.) No. He looks to the stranger, stranger than fiction. (Riddler laughs and says _when is a raven like a writing desk?_ ) Who's this, is the real question?

Bruce decides that the only way to find out is to introduce himself.

So he does just that, making his way to the man that seems a little more than nervous, standing out in the open all alone. He perks up when he sees Bruce approaching, and the millionaire gives him a smile. "Good evening, I don't think we've met. And I do like to make it a habit of knowing _mostly_ everyone in my house."

Realization dawns on the brunette, who looks even more sheepish than before. "Oh, I'm sorry, you must be Bruce Wayne! I'm, ah, Jack. Jack Napier." He clears his throat, entirely starstruck. "I'm, um, sorry, I'm not that important- a friend of mine invited me here as a plus one." He nods his head over at a group of doctors from Arkham. "I'm a comedian. They sometimes come to my shows."

Bruce raises a curious eyebrow, but says nothing.

"Sorry if you weren't expecting me," he murmurs, suddenly embarrassed. "Or- expecting someone else."

"That's alright," he says, ever the gracious host. There's always room for more here. Do you want a drink?"

Jack nods, over-eager and puppyish. Bruce calls over Alfred, grabs two flutes of champagne from his tray, even while his butler gives him a curious look. He shoots him a look back, the one that says _I'm not doing work._

When they're alone again- and of course they are, even with Gotham's upper crust swirling around them- Jack's fingers smooth over the crystal of his glass, fidgety as he looks around. "Lots of pretty girls here," Jack says. "But I haven't seen you talk with any of 'em."

Ah. Of course. His love life. It always veers into this territory, inevitably. "Yes, well, I guess I just had some catching up to do with some friends, and..." He's not sure what to say, if he should defend himself.

"And what?" Jack asks, grinning. "Does the great Bruce Wayne have flings with men?" Bruce opens his mouth to say something, obviously taken aback by the forwardness, but Jack just laughs. "I'm joking! I just saw you and that Kent fellow from the Planet. Two of you were mighty close."

"We've been friends for a long time."

"I sure would like to be one of your friends, Mister Wayne."

The small flirtation shouldn't be enough to make him flush. Bruce Wayne would normally smile politely at such an invitation, chuckle, perhaps throw out his own nicety. But the earnestness of this man gets to him.

They talk for a while more, the man never quite sitting still, always fidgeting. _All good things,_  Bruce thinks, when a hand touches his arm gently. Doctor Thompkins, there to say hi. He gives her a smile and a nod, an "I'll be with you shortly," and turns back to Jack.

He's fidgetting more, now, hand scratching the back of his neck. "It was nice talking to you, Bruce." No Mr. Wayne. It's a nice touch. He likes it. "Maybe you can come over to my place, next time," and realizing what he's saying, Jack quickly adds, "if you like standup, I mean."

* * *

Bruce attends his show, and he laughs a few times. He realizes that Jack is not necessarily a _successful_  comedian, but Bruce has never had a normal sense of humor. It's awkward when he arrives, he thinks, because there's only a few other people there at first, and whispers follow him. More people trickle in throughout the show. Jack doesn't seem to mind- before he starts, he spots Bruce, smiles so delicately, like he can't believe he came.

Before it's over, a man at the table next to him murmurs, "he's never this confident. Usually always stumblin' over his words."

That spurs him on. There's a short break, and Bruce exits the club. He had seen a flower stand a little down the street on his way there. He buys a boquet full of sunflowers, daffodils, roses, and walks back, arms full. It doesn't seem like much to him, but he severely doubts that Jack is used to receiving the good kind of attention.

When he comes back, he sees Jack hunched over at the bar. He looks a little forlorn, but once Bruce gets near enough, he turns his head and immediately brightens. "Bruce!" He sounds shocked, delighted. "I thought... I thought I saw you leave?"

Bruce gives him the millionaire smile and laughs. "No, just thought I'd pick something up for you. I wouldn't run out on you like that."

Jack looks sheepish. "Well, some people aren't fond a' my routine..." And then, with some dawning realization, "those... are for me?"

All it takes is a nod and Jack is smiling at him again, in that beautiful, indescribable way. He hugs Bruce, then remembering the flowers he's holding, backs up.

He looks bashful. "Do you want to get a table, maybe? Sit down and have a drink...?" It's that hope that he's going to say yes, that he isn't too busy. It's fragile and small, and the look Jack gives him says enough; he thinks he's asking for too much.

Bruce laughs, tilts his head. "Show me to your favorite table."

They sit down, drink and talk and drink. Libations, liberations. Bruce realizes that, _yes,_  this is how he should've felt, could've felt if he didn't always watch over Gotham. But it is a slow night. He's surprised that no one's showed up, he's gotten no signals from the Batcomputer about Joker or anyone.

Maybe he can have a night off, just once.

They stay there for an impossible amount of time, days, minutes. It's all a haze. Bruce only drinks champagne at social events, wine at dinners, or whiskey alone, on particularly bad nights. The last time he had a beer was with Gordon, on one of those bad nights, on the rooftop after they had lost Harvey. This is so different. Libations, liberations. Bruce isn't sure it matters.

Somehow the topic veers to Batman and- why wouldn't it? If he stiffens Jack can't tell, and maybe his suspicion is too customary. He's safe.

"-I think the world needs Batman," there's a slur creeping into his voice, but Jack shakes it away. "Or Gotham does, at least. I sure as hell do."

"Well, there's no accounting for property damage," Bruce says, leaning forward, but it falls flat. He feels like he doesn't need to fake this, at least, his support, in front of Jack, and that worries him.

Jack looks off, head slumped on his hand, as he breathes, "yeah, I guess."

It's late into the night by now. The bartender makes a last call and Jack drowns his drink impressively. Bruce pays, despite his insistence. "Think of it as repayment," he says. "For the show."

Jack frowns. It looks wrong on him, somehow, like his face wasn't made for the expression. "But you did me a favor by showing up."

Bruce just laughs. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

He looks as if he's about to protest. Instead, he breaks out into a smile. "Thanks for comin', Brucie. You really made my night."

* * *

 His night quickly goes south.

He'd only been home for half an hour when Joker shows up on the Batcomputer, startling him out of his research with a fury. He scans the information- _toxin, rooftop downtown, live on television_ ,- and that's all he needs. While the alcohol had little effect on him, he feels tired. He just wanted a night off.

He suits up, and he's there in ten minutes flat. Takes out the thugs surrounding the building with ease, glides up to the roof without a problem. There's canisters lined up neatly on the far end, each adorned with a smiling face. He expects nothing less. 

" _Batsy_! Dear. Knight of my _life_." Joker is clasping his hands together, mock swoon. Soft sighs as if he was there, shining armor and all, to rescue him.

All other primate species smile, bare their teeth, as a sign of aggression. The Joker is more like them than us.

He's as beautiful as a corpse could be, maybe, face smeared with mortuary makeup, greasepainted. Everything about him is ostentatious, stands out. Nothing like the Batman, trying to blend in with the shadows Gotham offers him. (They really are opposites. _Two sides of the same coin_ , he had said once, while hanging Harvey Dent over a vat of acid. _Two halves of a whole,_  he had said, right before cutting the rope. He almost hadn't caught him fast enough.)

There's no reason for him to stall. They do their dance, a punch here, a miss there, Joker laughing the entire time. Batman grabs him by the collar. "You're crazy," he snarls.

Joker hums. "For _you_ , darling. That's what makes it _special._ "

"If you ever thought you could get away with this," he gestures towards the containers, "you're even more out of it than I thought."

Joker feigns hurt, hand draped across his forehead. "Touchy. Come on, Bats, I might be _crazier_  than that, but you're smarter than that." He leans forward, and Batman recoils, although he presses his lips against his cowl, his temple. "They're empty, sweetheart. This was just to get you out here."

Batman looks confused, grip loosening just the slightest.

"I had a _wonder_ ful night, and I thought, who better to share it with than my very own prince charming?"

"You wasted my time for this?" He wants to sound angry, but he isn't. Not really. More disoriented than anything. The vertigo. He turns to go.

"Uh, uh, uh," Joker chastizes. " _These_  might be fake, but that doesn't mean I don't have real bombs down on the west end." He holds up a remote, dangling it back and forth by the antenna.

Batman stops. "How do I know those aren't fake, too?"

Joker shrugs. "You don't. But would you _really_ want to take that chance? Why, it's not very chivalrous of you to let me blow up Gotham just because you didn't want to spend some time with little ol' me."

"Why? What's this for?"

"What's a show without an audience? Even if it's just a party of one."

He watches Joker sit down on the ledge of the building, crosses his long legs daintily. Pats the space next to him. Batman sighs, sitting next to him. The clown preens.

"You know, I always say I'll make you laugh one day, but just maybe-" He hums, "maybe you'll make me cry."

"Leave that to Killer Croc." Joker brings a hand to his chest in offense. "What do you want, anyway? Where's the show?"

"Right here, batty boy. Watch the sunrise with me."

So he does.

* * *

Maybe Bruce goes to another one of his shows. Then another. Then invites him over for dinner at his place. Maybe they're going somewhere.

Bruce likes being with Jack. It almost scares him- he's poured way more attention into the man than he had with any other fling, and he has more genuine affection for him than any dates he'd been on with supermodels for pretense. He relaxes, as much as he can, when Jack is around.

Maybe it was just how infectious the man was. Even Bruce was having trouble not laughing when Jack cracked a joke, couldn't stop himself from surrendering when the lanky man crashed against him, tired out, organs exhausted from the exhalations. Jack was so susceptible to him. And he doesn't forget, never forgets, but for once, the terror he has for Gotham stills for just a moment, a heartbeat winding down. He does not think of Joker or Scarecrow or Bane or Calender Man or anyone. He thinks of Jack.

It's obvious from his mannerisms that he isn't used to the kind of decadence Bruce is. Even if he didn't always look so caught off-guard at events, or even when they're alone at restaurants and he's confronted with one too many forks, he always seems so skittish. But a placating hand from Bruce, a thumb rubbing over the back of his wrist and a simple "it's okay" never fails, manages to fish out that weary smile from him.

Bruce has tried to avoid the fancier places, for Jack's sake. Even when the paparazzi leave them be, people still stare. The last time they went to the Iceberg Lounge, he'd seen Oswald turn away from Edward- a feat in itself- and stare long and hard at Jack, as if he was trying to work something out. Bruce had thought the Penguin should've left the questions to his husband, even though his stare made his skin prickle. So they start to go to those skeevy, nameless bars near where Jack does standup. He feels more comfortable. They're more alone.

(Sometimes, Jack grabs him even when they aren't, seemingly compelled, pressing kisses against him even as people stare. "Just can't keep my hands off of 'ya, handsome," he says. Bruce feels like the prize, this time.)

They're both busy people; Bruce had had the slightest fear that his need to disappear would have some kind of impact on their relationship, that Jack would figure out his identity sooner or later. But Jack is just as preoccupied, with his "odd jobs" and shows. Bruce had offered early on to keep him stable, financially. Even though he had insisted money wasn't a problem to him, Jack wanted to keep his own degree of independence, to keep his apartment. Even so, it was admirable, and Bruce had surmised they weren't at that stage yet, anyway.

 _If he could ever get at that stage_  is a thought, an ache he keeps tucked away.

But still, Bruce looks forward to the nights where things align, where they both find each other in his bed, the millionaire curling around Jack as he gives a pleasant sigh, hand reaching for the one slung across his waist. Jack traces a scar across his bicep, murmurs appreciatively in his ear.

It's become harder, in the last few weeks. It feels like the Joker's picked up speed, goes out and out more these days. At first, he thought it was just him, (perhaps he was too fond of Jack, wanted too much time to himself,) but even Alfred had agreed.

* * *

Jack goes missing.

It happens suddenly. He had sent Joker to Arkham again, shoving him in the back of a white van. He thought it'd give him more time alone with him, let him go out with Jack, but it seems as if he had dropped off the face of the earth. Or, perhaps even worse, Gotham had swallowed him up. A nice man like that doesn't last long.

He had, against his own wishes and at Alfred's behest, searched the database for him, hoping to find a glimpse of where he might go. If he was safe. He finds nothing under Jack Napier, not a single trace, not any leftovers or his old addresses. His stomach churns in the awfullest way, and he hunches further over the Batcomputer. If everyone is somewhere, why isn't he anywhere?

He is either a fabrication or an erasure. Both are terrifying thoughts. 

* * *

 "Hello, lover _boy_."

Joker escapes, as always. Here is the grand act: put a man in a straitjacket and submerge him in water, in cold, in pain. Watch him come undone again and again.

Batman is thankful there are no goons this time. It's the same rooftop as before. Joker is nothing if not thematic. He looks worse for the wear, wearing said jacket, sleeves hanging sloppily off his arms. They come at each other.

The clown somehow manages to rip away at the armor over his shoulder. He punches Joker squarely as the clown tears what's left of the fabric, to his elbow.

"Oh, don't you look _delicious._  So _strong_." Joker croons, then throws his head back and laughs. His eyes wander over his bicep, and Bruce is starting to feel uncomforable. He's about to make another grab at the Joker when he says, "nice Croc-shapes scar ya got there. Ya- _know_ , come to think of it, someone else I know has a scar just like that."

"Shut up, Joker." He growls, but something about that scares him. It's not like the man hadn't made a grab for him as Bruce Wayne before, but he'd always managed to remain relatively unscatched.

The thought that Joker could be running around town in some other persona hits him in a sickly fashion.

"No, I _know_ this one." He scrunches up his face and sticks out his tongue, in some comic hyperbole of a human action. Like he's thinking real hard.

A lightbulb goes clattering to the floor, somewhere, and breaks open. The Joker stops smiling. He looks betrayed, and Batman would almost think it was funny if he didn't look so damn sad. For once, the villain's at a loss for words. When he finally talks, he's mumbling out something that sounds like "Brucie."

They both stay there, at a standstill, until the Joker's hurt finally manifests into rage. His mouth twists angrily, like a petulant child, and he makes a small, angry sound between a growl and a scream. He barrels to him, and he knows from experience how light he is, but the sheer force pushes both of them to the ground, Batman hitting it with a solid thud.

He's never seen him like this; for all his talk of madness, he'd never seen that last ounce of self-control drain from him. One hit after another. This was fury, wrath, the fifth circle. Bruce has never been religious, but he thinks of him and Jack, Joker and Batman, grappling forever like this. _Adversary_. Somewhere later, sometime else, he intercepts one of his punches, and he sees that Joker is crying.

He doesn't stop, crumpling over in on himself. Bruce doesn't have it in him to hit him back, not now. It'd be overkill. _La commedia è finita._ The Joker drags himself off of him, paper doll to little marrionette, limbs too heavy to lift. 

"Show's over, Batman," The Joker calls. "There's no encore. Go home."

* * *

He reels. Like a fish fighting back, hook deep in the roof of his mouth. He calls Jack's phone, over and over and on his last try, the line's been disconnected. He tells himself it's all a mistake, can't be real, Joker found something out and is fucking with him. That is another can of worms, another tin full of live bait just waiting for him, but he'd rather find out that Joker found _him_  out than-

Thinking like that isn't helpful. Thinking in itself isn't. He has to _do_ something.

Bruce is lucky. He knows where to find Jack now. He's stopped by the Joker's lair at least a dozen times now, and he'd usually be at his wit's end, but now he knows the way to Jack's apartment by heart, gets there easy. With every instance of the Joker being absent now, he half expects to find the apartment abandoned too, but luckily, a familiar, frazzled, skinny man opens the door when he knocks.

"Light of my life," he says, lamely, flatly. Like a joke waiting for its punchline.

"What did you do?" Panic crawls into him. "How'd you do it?"

"You're acting like this is all my fault."

"This is not _my_  fault."

"I know, and that's exactly it, isn' it? I spend all my time trying to forget about Bats and I find _you_." He laughs, somewhat, and Bruce _remembers_ , remembers that the universe is funny, too.

That sends a wave of confusion over Bruce- there's no way that the Joker had... Shaking those thoughts away, he goes on. "What are you going to do now?"

Jack- the Joker frowns, lips pursed tightly. "Way to rush a girl into moving on, huh? Don't worry, Bats, your precious city is safe. Guess that's all you care about, anyway."

Finally, Bruce starts to feel a bit angry. "I cared about Jack. Do you think it was _easy_ to find out he was just some homicidal fiend who just wants to destroy Gotham?" Beat. "Finding out he was _you_?"

"Overdramatic, as always." Joker rolls his eyes, but Bruce can see the way he flinches when he says "you." "That's not all I wanted." Again, confusion. "Now if you excuse me, Bats, I have some bags to pack."

The door closes- not slams- in his face.

He thinks about how little he really knew Jack all along. How little he saw of him, them of each other. He walks away.

* * *

Batman spends most nights like this now, patrolling from the rooftops. It helps him get his mind of things, think of not Jack.

There's someone surrounded by a crowd of what he assumes are gangsters, pummeling them into the dirt. He swings low, kicking one of them in the face before landing. They don't have enough time to react, momentarily stopping their assault to figure out what's going on and he manages to take down the 5, 10, 15 of them. He rushes to the side of the man on the ground and he sees it's-

-Jack. No. Joker. Without makeup.

He sighs, heaving the man up and slinging back onto one of the rooftops. He's got enough in his utility belt to clean him up enough before sending him to the hospital.

"You coulda just let them do me in, sweetheart," is the first thing he says to Bruce. And then, almost sarcastically, "woulda been doing you a favor."

"Obviously not." Batman's eyes narrow under the mask. "What were you doing out here, alone?" He takes out some cotton swabs and a bit of rubbing alcohol, squatting next to the man sitting on the ground.

"Oh please, don't make me think you were wor _ried_ , God forbid."

"I'm serious, Joker. What were you doing?"

He scowls in response. "Do I _look_ like the Joker?" Jack sighs, looking off. They were really high up. "I wasn't doing anything. Not bombing anythin' or kidnapping anyone. So you can rest easy."

Batman stops dabbing at his injuries, perturbed. "That's not what I mean. Why were you putting yourself in danger?" They wouldn't have known him without his makeup. It doesn't take the World's Greatest Detective to know that. So he had to have agitated them, as a civilian.

Then, Joker glances back at him, his turn to be confused. "Might as well end it. Cruel world, et cetera. Was going to let those goons get what they wanted before I hit the dirt road." He sniffles. "Is that an expression?"

Batman's grip on his arm tightens. "That's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

Grimacing, Bruce stops. "Don't do something like that."

"What's it matter? You won't be seeing me around anymore, anyway. And I know you're bouncing off the walls because of that." Spits blood. "They're padded, I hear."

He says nothing back, continuing to disinfect and bandage him up as much as possible. Once he's done, he stands, the Joker doing so soon after.

"Well, it's been a pleasure as always, Batman, but I'm going to be leaving now." He gives a mock bow, hair flipping down in front of his face. He heads for the stairs limply, when Bruce stops him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The Joker sounds more irritated now. "Home. Do you really think I can-"

"You're hurt."

"You've hurt me _worse_."

"You're coming with me."

He is in no position to argue. Bruce can easily overpower him, and he doesn't have the strength to continue to fight back, even if just verbally.

The ride back is the most uncomfortable of Bruce's life. Joker slouches against the passenger seat, body fully against the door. They'd been here before, enough times to lose count. He goes corpsestiff. Usually, he'd crack a joke, turn to him and say "hey Bats, what a sweet ride," try to fiddle with the buttons. He hates to say it, but it's uncomfortable. He wears the silence like a weight, like a shock blanket, the aftermath of something terrible. He half thinks of blindfolding the Joker, but he knows there's no point. His secrets are as obvious as the grooves on the key.

Once they get there, he turns the car off, exits the car with as much resilence as he can muster. "You can give up the act," Bruce says, stretching his arms out. Soreness seeps into him, into the space between his muscles, strung tight like a violin. An instrument of destruction, but an instrument nonetheless. Joker slides out of the Batmobile, squinting against the darkness of the cave. There is no flourish to his movement. "I'm sure you wanted to be here, for some reason. What's your plan this time?"

"The audience couldn't tell it was real, when Pagliacci wept," and he laughs, a mirthless sound. Bruce raises an eyebrow and says nothing. He takes off his cowl while Joker inspects his trophies. Maybe they're more like gifts, at this point.

He eventually takes a seat, a bench nearer to the computer. Motions for Joker to follow, and it has to be the tiredness, because he sits without complaint or comment.

"It's not the first time I've been with... one of the bad guys." Bruce admits, still turned away. He thinks about Selina. Talia.

"But never me, right, Batsy?" Joker clicks his tongue. "Whatever, I-

"But it was the first time that I had... felt this way." Joker remains silent now, so Bruce finally looks at him and asks, "Why'd you do it? _How_ did you? I kept my identity entirely secret, I didn't leave a trace-"

Joker screws up his face, half in disgust, half in rage. "You think I _knew_? I just loved you, I wasn't trying anything you _buf_ foon- I just wanted-" He freezes in horror once he realizes what he's said.

"You loved-"

"No."

"You said you loved me."

"It was, it was my mistake." Joker jumps up. "I have to go."

"Joker-"

"Sorry Bats, I need to get back to-"

" _Jack._ "

He freezes completely, not sure of what to do. He's standing at the door, hand on the frame, and his head whips around. "You..." It's awkward like a gun shot is awkward.

"Jack, I'm sorry. Please come back here."

As if pulled by a string, Jack puppets himself back to Bruce carefully, taking his place back next to him. Bruce sighs.

He's quiet for a while, but thankfully, Jack doesn't challenge him. All he does is blink, still watching Bruce with that neutral expression. It doesn't suit him. "It's a mess," Bruce starts, "but it can work."

Jack's eyes widen. "What?"

"Us."

"It wasn't just you," he admits, quietly, after a moment. "I loved you as Batsy, too." His hand tightens on his pants leg, and he looks down.

"You weren't subtle" is his automatic response, but he sighs after he says it. Gentler. "I thought it was a joke."

He shrugs now, closes in on himself. Built all of spider limbs and chainsaws. "Maybe. But it wasn't."

Bruce kisses him then, feverishly, perhaps even madly. All he can hear is the waterfall, far off but booming, and the sound Jack makes as he presses against him. He groans, so softly, like an injured sound. And then-

Jack starts to cry. At first, he's just sniffing, raising his hands to his face, and then it's uncontrollable. Bruce feels panicked, wonders if they should stop, but he shakes his head before Bruce can do anything. "Don't," Jack murmurs. "I'm okay, keep going." Bruce presses another kiss against his throat, even as it tightens. His hands fidget and pull. Kinetic energy.

Bruce performs another transmutation.


End file.
